


Remains of the Day

by alexandriakeating



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Hurt Crowley, I'm making it a thing, M/M, Mentioned Aziraphale (Good Omens), fluffy hurt, is that even a thing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 11:53:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19272754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexandriakeating/pseuds/alexandriakeating
Summary: Adam had rebooted reality. He had changed the past and the present. So on Sunday, people awoke to find a world that was almost, but not entirely, the one that they used to inhabit. Although, people who were dead were now alive, and things that were broken had now been miraculously restored.Crowley is the first to return to Aziraphale's shop after the Almost Apocalypse.The boy had rewritten it and nothing remained of the terror from yesterday. Out of all the charred bindings and disintegrated paper nothing remained of the destruction from yesterday. Nothing remained of the blackened world that had enfolded him yesterday.





	Remains of the Day

**Author's Note:**

> Holy shit, fam. I haven't written fanfic in nearly two and a half years, but these fucking dorks - be still my heart. I'm so happy this novel finally got the show it deserves. It feels good to just write something small for fun.
> 
> I just couldn't get over the fact that Crowley was the first to return to the shop after the not-ending-of-the-world when the last he saw it flames had engulfed everything and he thought Aziraphale had died.

**The Very First Day of the Rest of Their Lives: Sunday**

**_Adam had rebooted reality. He had changed the past and the present. So on Sunday, people awoke to find a world that was almost, but not entirely, the one that they used to inhabit. Although, people who were dead were now alive, and things that were broken had now been miraculously restored._ **

Crowley hesitated to step from the center of the street. For all intents and purposes, Aziraphale’s shop stood unwavering before him. Every brick in place. Each odd patch of age discoloration and streak of water stain from a leaky gutter present. The slight bowed shape of the pillars that had first charmed Aziraphale to the place.

His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek and ran along the outer side of his bottom teeth. Taking a deep breath, tugged at the high collar and tight pinch from Aziraphale’s bowtie. He shook his head. 

“Ah,” he said to himself, “for He - humanity’s sake. Just walk in.”  _ It’s not on fire _ , he reminded himself.  _ It’s safe. Aziraphale is safe. There’s no fire and Aziraphale is not dead. _

Jaw tight and fingers curled at his sides he took the first step and then another and another until he stood in the shadow of the shop. The shades were pulled down and blocked his view of inside. The glass panes were clean and in one piece. The red paint was scuffed and worn but showed no signs of burning. The door knob was cold and damp against his hand. 

The bell jangled behind him as the door closed. He took a deep breath of the smokeless air. One step forward and then another, his eyes unable to find a single place to rest; he expected flames to flicker to life at any moment. All was quiet and still. Adam had rewritten it and nothing remained of the terror from yesterday.

Without a thought, Crowley’s hand reached out to the nearest stack of books. The rough, dimpled texture of the cover tickled his fingers. He pressed firmer to anchor himself. Out of all the charred bindings and disintegrated paper nothing remained of the destruction from yesterday.

As he took another step deeper in, his fingers fell away. Crowley turned his eyes upward. The only movement in the air was the gentle twirling dance of dust motes in the early morning sunlight. Gone was the curling smoke and flittering ash of lost words and mementos leaving only scorched memories of singed stories. The air lingered on his skin with a gentle warmth. Nothing remained of the blackened world that had enfolded him yesterday.

Crowley’s gaze turned towards Aziraphale’s personal nook, his workspace and the place of more than one late night discussion. He had long become accustomed to the subdued calm this room possessed in comparison to the world around. He had found something in the fluid flip of a page, the soft settling of a mug on wood, the whispers from the phonograph over in the backroom, the tight pinch of lips, and the breathy mutterings of awe and wonder from Aziraphale fluttering through his newest acquisition. He had dared to call that something tranquility. Even in Aziraphale’s absence as he took a phone call, as he gathered a new bottle of wine and a treat or two (always two, one for Crowley that he never ate if only because what coiled under his skin when he offered it to Aziraphale and the angel’s lips pursed together to prevent showing the smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes was more pleasurable than anything edible could ever be), there was never anything static. Soft warmth of the worn and well-loved embraced the shop. Despite Aziraphale’s doubt at his ability to sense love, Crowley sensed it quite keenly, especially here. Always here so much so that any other place felt ambivalent and sterile.

Crowley never thought that he would use those descriptors towards this place, yet now he felt that only they were accurate for what the room had become. The couch was still worn. Every flat surface still had books stacked in precarious piles. The small table by Aziraphale’s chair had a full decanter and two clean tumblers ready and waiting. His chair was in straight order and pushed in instead of its usually forgotten state of feverish akimbo. The top of his cylinder desk that he had gotten after the romp through France during the height of the Reign of Terror was closed. Gone were scribbled scraps of paper - the memos, the translations, the interpretations, the correspondences. As a whole, it had a rather clean and tidy appearance Crowley had never ascribed to Aziraphale’s shop.

Standing tall and boldly red at the top of the desk were a series of Richmal Crompton novels Crowley had never heard of nor seen before. He rose an eyebrow. “Those are new.” 

And if memory served, they took the place of Aziraphale’s prized books of prophecy.  _ Oh. Well, he won’t like that. _

His gaze continue to rove about the shop and into the backroom that had never known a clean surface until now. 

Adam had restored everything. He had miracled away the broken. 

Adam had returned everything to the shop but Aziraphale.

Odd that Crowley would think of this - him being the first to return the shop, him in Aziraphale’s form - as sacrilege. 


End file.
